


Perfect Little Dream: The Kind that Hurts the Most

by Moosey



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angstiest thing I've written in a while, Break Up, Cheating is a thing in this, Codependency, Derek POV, Emotionally Hurt Derek, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Everyone's hurting you guys, Hale Family Feels, M/M, Miscommunication, Relationship Issues, Stiles POV, That's probably the big tag here, Wolf!Derek, but maybe a contentious one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moosey/pseuds/Moosey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’d never talked about this thing between them, but Derek never felt more whole than when he was with Stiles. He wanted more of him, always wanted more, but he never knew how to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *****
> 
> Check notes at end for spoiler-y warnings if you'd like, because I haven't tagged this one so well.
> 
> EDIT: I've added a cheating tag as requested! 
> 
> *****

He’d woken up in the throes of another nightmare, sodden with sweat and panting. He swore he’d only just closed his eyes, and glancing at the clock proved that was near true. He’d been asleep for less than an hour, but apparently that was all his mind was going to allow him. He’d averaged maybe 45 minutes a night the past two weeks, and it was more than taking its toll on him. It always seemed to culminate on this night though, every year like clockwork.

Derek dragged himself to his feet wearily, stumbling slightly as he fought his way through a wave of light-headedness that made him feel slightly nauseated and unsteady. His eyes were sore, felt scratchy and grainy, like he had sand or dirt in them, and his mouth felt claggy and dry. Sighing, Derek let his eyes fall to half-mast, barely able to keep them open even that much, and sluggishly wove his way out of the bedroom. His shoulder hit the doorframe as he passed, and he ricocheted away from it, feeling unreasonably sorry for himself.

The couch beckoned his tired body, muscles aching like he’d over-worked them, when in fact all he’d done was under-rest them. He detoured by the fridge, grabbing a can of energy drink – a new staple in his life – and downed the vile chemical concoction, hating the taste but needing the after effects of it. It made his heart race, and his metabolism burned through the caffeine quickly, but at least the illusion of it was sometimes enough.

He’d taken to trying to wear himself out; working out until his body collapsed, trembling and burned out. Sometimes then he’d fall in to something that resembled unbroken sleep, though it never lasted for long. His best bet was exhausting himself with sex. Fucking until he couldn’t think or feel anything but the aching need to orgasm, and finally the bone deep tiredness that followed as endorphins rushed his system and left him able to sleep.

But he hadn’t had the chance of late, instead working out because the orgasms he gave himself were never good enough, never went deep enough. It was with that in mind that he found himself staring down at his phone, a name highlighted and waiting for him to press call. He’d made it clear this was why he’d given Derek his number in the first place. No strings attached, and no complications. It was tempting; more than, when Derek thought about the nebulous idea of sleep. He sighed to himself, checked the time (2.53 on a Friday night, so surely not an unreasonable time?) but decided to text, because he preferred not having to talk.

 _Are you busy?_ He settled on, figuring it would work as an opening salvo.

 _I wondered if you’d ever use my number_ came the reply. Not really an answer, but Derek took it anyway.

 _I didn’t intend to_ Derek replied, dragging a hand down his face.

_Well I’m glad you did. Want to come over?_

_Yeah. I’m on my way._

 

  
********  


“Hey Derek!” Stiles called, knocking on the door obnoxiously. “Let me in!”

Derek huffed out an amused sound, and yanked on a t-shirt as he made his way to the door, opening it to grant entrance to the most infuriating person he’d ever known.

Stiles grinned at him, a sunny smile that lit up his face, without any hesitation. “Hi,” he said, his mouth finally settling in to a small smile as he reached out and twisted his hand in the hem of Derek’s shirt.

“Hi,” Derek replied quietly, letting Stiles pull him closer. He felt the knot of tension in his shoulders lessen as Stiles pressed their mouths together. It nearly dissipated entirely as their mouths opened to each other and he could taste Stiles properly, feel the heat of him.

“Mmm, you taste good,” Stiles hummed happily against Derek’s jaw, lips planting soft kisses and rasping over the stubble Derek had let grow a little longer than usual. Stiles seemed to like it, and his words echoed Derek’s own thoughts. He gripped Stiles’ waist, his fingers flexing a little, wanting to pull Stiles tight against his own body. To savour his warmth and his scent.

Derek pressed his face into Stiles’ neck, inhaling and feeling settled. Just being near him made Derek feel less fragmented, though no less exhausted. Stiles kneaded the back of his neck with strong fingers, smoothing away some of the tightness there, and slid his fingers up in to Derek’s hair, making a little happy, self-satisfied sound as Derek couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

They’d never talked about this thing between them, but Derek never felt more whole than when he was with Stiles. He wanted more of him, always wanted more, but he never knew how to ask. What had started as two sort-of friends hooking up, had turned in to a hell of a lot more for Derek.

After a while, they drew apart, both seeming to simultaneously realise they were still standing in the open doorway, and Stiles threw himself down onto the sofa, sprawling gracelessly with his leg slung over the arm, foot kicking as it dangled and he wriggled around pulling off his hoodie. He was clad in multiple layers, as always. He flung his arm over his head, and it lifted his shirt, revealing a strip of pale skin and muscle, a flash of hipbone, and a dusting of the dark trail that led into the waistband of his jeans. All of which made Derek’s mouth water as he just stood there and looked down at Stiles, appreciating the sinuous way he stretched himself out. He’d never craved anyone the same way he craved Stiles. Sex was sex, but there was something about Stiles, the way he moved and the sounds he made, how he touched Derek, that he just couldn’t get enough of.

“Drink?” he asked, finally dragging his gaze away from Stiles’ body, and heading to the fridge. “Or are you hungry?” He felt an overwhelming need to care for Stiles, make sure he was well fed. Stiles found it outrageously amusing, but loved it anyway, agreeing to let Derek cook for him or pay for his meals, always with a knowing little twist to his smirking mouth.

“If you feed me, I will love you forever,” Stiles groaned, rubbing a hand over his stomach. The words, the sound Stiles made, and the way his fingers caught on his bared skin all made Derek blink dumbly for a moment, before he kicked into motion, grabbing ingredients from the fridge and pans from the cupboards.

“Noooo, let’s just order pizza,” Stiles wailed, making ridiculous grabby hands at Derek.

Derek paused, hand on the faucet, ready to wash some tomatoes, and smiled to himself. “Okay, okay. Make the call,” he said, moving to put everything away again. Everything had it’s place, and he carefully stacked the pots back in the right order, and cleared away the foodstuffs, taking a moment to wipe down the surface even though he hadn’t made any messes on it. It was just a habit of his. He noticed after a few moments that Stiles hadn’t started talking yet, so he slung the towel over his shoulder and turned, leaning back against the counter and braced his palms on it. “They probably know our order by heart now Stiles, what’s the hold up? I thought you were hungry,” he said slightly teasingly.

Stiles was motionless on the sofa, chin nearly touching his chest as he looked down at the phone in his lap. Before he had even realised there was something unnatural about Stiles’ stillness, Derek almost tasted the bitter tang of Stiles’ emotions on his tongue, as he got the sense of pain and fear radiating from Stiles in shockwaves of heavy chemosignals.

“Stiles?” he asked, concern making his stomach twist. He pushed away from the counter and approached cautiously, coming to stop behind Stiles.

“Who’s Zach?” Stiles asked, voice deceptively light, jarringly at odds with the aura of misery around him, thick and cloying like fog.

“He’s no one,” Derek replied honestly, his brow creasing in a frown.

“No one? That you go and visit in the middle of the night?” Stiles asked, voice flat. He placed the phone screen side down on the sofa, his hand flattened over it, pushing down on it.

“Stiles?” Derek asked carefully, walking around the sofa. He crouched beside him, and moved to rest his palm on Stiles’ knee. He felt strangely sick when Stiles flinched his leg away. Derek didn’t know what to say, as Stiles’ whiskey coloured eyes roamed over Derek’s face, his mouth a thin slash conveying nothing but unhappiness and anger.

“Where did you meet Zach?” Stiles asked, dropping his eyes to Derek’s chest.

“At work,” Derek replied, staying still. He felt like if he moved right now, Stiles would startle away from him and he didn’t think he could handle that.

“So he’s a work buddy?” Stiles asked, his voice starting to sound a little strained.

“No, we are in different departments,” Derek replied, not sure why any of this mattered, or why Stiles was reacting like this.

“Why do you have his number Derek?”

“He put it in my phone. Said it was if I ever wanted to hang out.”

“So you wanted to hang out?” Stiles asked haltingly. “In the middle of the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep, Stiles. I… I haven’t been -. It’s been really bad,” Derek stuttered, frustrated with himself for having kept his insomnia from Stiles, his nightmares. And equally frustrated at having to admit to his weaknesses now.

Stiles eyes flashed up to Derek’s face, and he saw concern in the line of Stiles’ brow, in the purse of his mouth. “You didn’t say anything,” he stated, not accusing, but sounding… hurt.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Derek settled on, moving to sit on the coffee table in front of Stiles. His body was too tired for him to crouch for long without swaying.

“How bad is it?”

Derek shrugged, and fought not to cross his arms defensively over his chest. “It’s fine, it’ll pass. It always does. I’m used to this.”

Stiles stared at him, slightly searchingly, but nodded, accepting Derek’s words. “So you hung out?” he asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Derek shrugged again. “Yeah, some.”

Stiles pressed his lips together and took what looked like a bracing breath. “Because, you know, this kind of looks like the sort of text you’d send for a booty call. I mean, not necessarily you, but in general. The kind of thing people send when they want to just… hook up.”

Derek paused, his heart starting to race as he realised he might have made a very big mistake. “Yeah,” he said, perplexed, but feeling sick at the sight of Stiles’ fearful eyes, the scent of his nervousness, the fluttering race of his heartbeat.

“Was it?” Stiles asked after a too-long pause, when the silence had begun to feel awkward and abrasive on even Derek’s nerves.

Derek felt himself nodding slowly before he even consciously decided to, his body knowing before his mind did that he’d never lie to Stiles. “It was.”

The hurt that flooded from Stiles was like an avalanche, instantaneous and crushing. It left Derek feeling confused and frightened. Stiles’ eyes slammed shut and he pushed himself up and away from Derek, scrabbling to stand. He rounded the sofa as if needing the physical barrier between them. He didn’t speak, but his mouth moved soundlessly, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. There was a crease between his eyebrows as he frowned, looking pained, and he finally snapped his mouth shut, the muscle of his cheek ticking as he ground his teeth.

Derek couldn’t sort through the myriad scents coming from Stiles as he stood there, frozen still but for his scrunching hands. All Derek could do was look up at him, and swallow thickly as fear made his stomach cramp and bile rise.

“Stiles,” he stammered, standing. Even with the couch between them, and even with his eyes closed, Stiles seemed to know Derek had moved. He flinched, eyes opening and fixing on Derek even as he stumbled back a step.

Derek felt well and truly gutted when he saw the dampness of Stiles’ eyes; he thought he could maybe taste the salt of those unshed tears on his tongue.

“Stiles, he’s no one. It wasn’t a big deal,” Derek tried to explain, words tripping over themselves in a mad rush to get out of his throat.

Stiles’ face twisted, a rictus of pain and incredulity. “Not a big deal?” he asked hoarsely. He didn’t blink, but a tear slipped from his eye, welling over. Derek couldn’t help but track its movement in his periphery, hating himself more and more with each millimetre.

He hadn’t known this would hurt Stiles. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Stiles would care, even if part of him had wished that Stiles would. But not like this. He’d never wish the pain he felt coming from Stiles on him.

“It was just sex,” he said, trying to make Stiles understand. “I couldn’t sleep, and it was all too much and I just… it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t-”

Derek realised he’d made yet another grand mistake when Stiles face shuttered before his very eyes. He’d never seen Stiles look this way, not the real Stiles, not his Stiles. The blankness reminded him of the Nogitsune, and he couldn’t get his head around the reality that he’d put that look on Stiles’ face once again.

Stiles didn’t spill any more tears, but they remained in his now blank eyes, everything locked down tight behind them. His mouth twitched, and he slid his hands into his pockets, balling them into fists again. “Didn’t mean anything,” he finally stated, sounding flatter than Derek could ever remember him sounding. Stiles’ voice was always so full of inflection. It was lyrical and more emotive than any other voice Derek had ever heard. It was one of his favourite things about Stiles. How unashamedly expressive and open he was.

“It was just sex,” Derek repeated, hating the words as he said them, wanting to take them back, take it all back.

“I was gone for three weeks Derek,” Stiles said dully. “Less than one month, and you end up in bed with some other guy? Tell me that it’s nothing? That it was just sex?” His voice was getting increasingly loud, faster, more frantic.

So was his heartbeat, and Derek could feel Stiles’ panic before it even hit him.

Stiles gasped, opening his mouth and rasping in a painful sounding breath, yanking his clenched fists from his pockets and tugging one into his dishevelled hair. He turned his back on Derek and hunched in on himself, shoulders curling in protectively as he panted. Derek was almost at his side within a heartbeat, but Stiles turned his head just enough for Derek to see his eyes were squeezed shut as he snarled, “don’t fucking touch me,” with so much anger in his voice that it made Derek want to throw up.

Stiles tripped his way towards the wall, bracing his hand on it for support and sagging, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. He turned and leaned his back against the wall, sinking down to the floor, bringing his knees close and resting his head there, protecting himself. Derek recognised the position; he’d assumed it too many times in his life not to.

“Stiles,” he breathed, his voice cracking halfway through the name. His body ached with the need to touch him, to help him, even as his gut roiled with bitter, burning sickness and anger. He hadn’t felt this kind of self-loathing in a long time; maybe not since he’d realised Kate had used him to kill his family. It felt almost comfortably familiar, in a twisted sort of way. He was good at hating himself. Far better at that than being any sort of decent person it seemed.

Stiles breath calmed in hitching increments, but he didn’t look up, didn’t move from the floor. It felt like they’d been silent forever, when Derek finally spoke again, so quietly he wasn’t sure if Stiles would even hear. “I didn’t know you’d care.”

He didn’t think Stiles had heard him, it took so long for a reply to come. Stiles eventually looked up at him, pale and weary, his face drawn. Derek felt like that gaze was ripping through all of his defences, and finding him lacking. He and Stiles had started out rocky, mutual dislike and murder accusations and plenty of disdain, but he’d never been on the receiving end of a look like this from Stiles before. It made him feel worthless.

“I’m in love with you,” Stiles said, looking like he was disgusted with himself even as the words were formed on his lips. His nostrils flared and his lips twisted into a nasty imitation of a smile. “I’m in love with you Derek. I have been for years,” he said, almost challengingly. Derek stared at him in shock, uncomprehending. Stiles face morphed again, the smile falling away and his body sagging. He resembled a puppet whose strings had been cut, and his face was so open and vulnerable that it hurt Derek to look at him, but he’d never be able to look away. He couldn’t do that to either of them. He deserved this.

“I thought,” Stiles began, pausing to swallow. “I thought maybe you were feeling it too.”

“I-”  
“But if you could do that. Could just… _fuck_ someone else, the moment I’m not available? I guess I know now where I stand. How interchangeable I am. God,” Stiles huffed out an angry laugh and rested his forehead on his hand, looking down at his knees. “I was so… pleased with myself, for getting through to you. For how you trusted me, how you let me touch you. I thought I meant something to you. I should have known I’d never been more than just, just… convenient.” He sounded strangely resigned.

“Stiles,” Derek nearly gasped, moving closer. Stiles didn’t flinch this time, didn’t react at all. Derek wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

“I don’t even know if I care though, you know? That’s what’s so fucked up,” Stiles laughed hollowly, thunking his head back against the wall and baring the long line of his throat. “Even if all I am is convenient. Just… someone to fuck. I think I’d still take it, you know? I think I’d still take what I could get of you.”

“Jesus,” Derek breathed, crumpling to his knees by Stiles side, keeping about a foot of distance between them, just to keep his sanity. To keep from crushing Stiles against his chest and never letting him go. “Stiles, it wasn’t – sex doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just… it never has… Not after - not after Kate and then Jen and I just… I never let it mean anything. I couldn’t,” Derek said messily, his words not making much sense. He didn’t know how to string his thoughts together, and it was making him feel angry on top of everything else. He didn’t know what words could heal this wound he’d inflicted on them.

“Yeah, I’m understanding that now,” Stiles said brokenly, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his closed eyes. His hands were shaking.

“No Stiles. You’re not, you’re… You’re not just sex, you never have been,” Derek tried. He gave in to the impulse and reached out, pulling Stiles hand away from his eyes, but realised his mistake as his words dried up when Stiles looked at him, so close. Close enough to see the striations of almost burnished gold in his rich, warm, eyes. Close enough to see how his lashes were clumping together with the dampness of his tears. “I didn’t know you wanted more from me, I thought this was just… something casual,” he finished lamely, wincing at his own words.

Stiles gave him a small, self-deprecating smile, and pulled his wrist from Derek’s grip. “My fault I guess. It’s not like we talked about it. I just made a lot of really fucking stupid assumptions.”

His scent was starting to fade now, the panic and the anguish that had been overwhelming was lessening, but there was still the heavy scent of anger lingering around him. It made Derek nervous. More so as he watched Stiles stand up, his heart still a fast staccato beat but no longer frantic. He straightened his overshirt, where it had skewed at the neck as he’d sat earlier, and flipped the collar back over correctly. He was preparing himself to leave, and if he left, he’d never come back.

“It was my brother’s birthday,” Derek blurted out desperately, standing up so fast that his head swam. Stiles blinked at him, nonplussed, and waited for Derek to continue. “I don’t know why it’s always that one that gets me. The anniversary of the fire, my mom’s birthday, my dad’s… they can all pass me by and it’s fine. I’m fine. But every time his birthday rolls around, I just… It hurts, and whenever I close my eyes all I can think about – he was six. The youngest. His name was Adam and he looked at me like I hung the moon,” Derek said, unable to stop now that he’d started.

“His sixth birthday, I took him out for ice cream. Mom never really let us eat that stuff, because I guess she didn’t want to deal with already hyper wolf pups high on sugar, but it was his birthday. He didn’t even know what to choose, he was so… overwhelmed. He wanted everything, but he picked two scoops for us each so he could try as many different flavours as he could. We ended up going back again for even more a while later, after we’d met Cora at the park. He insisted she get two scoops too, so he could have tried ten different flavours by the end of the day. I can’t even think about eating ice cream without feeling sick now,” Derek said brokenly. He remained still, staring down at the floor, but felt Stiles’ eyes on him. “When it’s his birthday… that’s when I feel it all. When I realise they’re gone, and it hits me, and I think about him burning, my baby brother,” Derek felt his face twisting into something ugly and violent, his lips skinning back from his teeth as his eyes flashed a cold ice blue. He dug his claws into his palms, trying to ground himself with pain. He could hear the drips of his blood hitting the floor.

“The only thing I can do is run from it. I run and I run and I’ll do anything that stops me from thinking, from feeling it. I can’t do it Stiles. I can’t make it if I have to think about it,” Derek pled, imploring Stiles to understand.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Stiles finally said, voice quiet against the sound of roaring in Derek’s ears.

“I don’t talk about him,” Derek replied needlessly, eyes drifting closed. He could feel the hurt coming from Stiles, but second hand this time. Now he hurt for Derek, which didn’t feel all that much better than him hurting because of Derek, to be honest. He’d never coped well with pity.

“You don’t talk about any of them,” Stiles said hesitantly. He didn’t move to close the gap between them, but Derek could tell he wanted to. He thought maybe if Stiles touched him now, he’d shatter, so he was grateful for the distance. Stiles made a small humourless sound, and Derek heard the rasp of material. He opened his eyes and saw Stiles leaning against the back of the sofa, body slightly slumped. He was chewing on the edge of his thumbnail. “We’re so shit at communicating Derek, it’s unreal,” he finally said, sounding tired and exasperated. Derek couldn’t help but agree.

“I love you too,” he said abruptly, words out there before he’d even realised he was going to say them. They might be terrible at communicating, but that was important. That needed to be said.

Stiles twitched, as though that wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. He looked as though he wished Derek had never said it. Derek wasn’t sure if he could regret saying it though. It felt like the only thing he shouldn’t regret right now.

“You love me, but you slept with someone else,” Stiles reiterated slowly, as though trying to understand that combination of words and how they could possibly make sense. Derek realised they probably couldn’t. And yet there it was, summed up succinctly.

He knew, even before Stiles shook his head sadly, before he looked up at Derek with sorrow etched in his eyes, that it was too late. Stiles tried to smile, but failed dismally. Derek clenched his jaw, trying to keep the onslaught of words, pleas for forgiveness, trapped behind his teeth where they couldn’t hurt either of them anymore.

“I can’t think clearly right now Der,” Stiles said, “and I think I should probably go. I just… I need to not be around you right now, because God. It kind of hurts to even look at you.” He stepped closer though, closer than they’d been since this began, what felt like forever ago. He hesitated visibly, but lifted his hand to touch the side of Derek’s neck, brushed his thumb feather-light against his jaw in a touch so familiar that it felt like home to Derek. “Thank you for telling me about Adam,” he said, eyes gazing in to Derek’s. He abruptly understood what Stiles had meant, about it hurting to look at him. “I hate that you hurt, Derek. I hate that you have to deal with any of this. But you didn’t have to do it alone. You never had to do it alone.”

He wondered if Stiles realised he’d used past tense. He wondered how he was still even breathing, as Stiles stepped away, picking up his discarded hoodie – the faded red one, Derek’s favourite – and walked out of the apartment. And he wondered how he’d ever survive, if Stiles didn’t come back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little continuation from Stiles' POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I don't even know. I just felt like adding to this, but this time from a Stiles-centric POV, and I hate myself a little for it. Heavy on the angst, and heavy on the feels.

He hadn’t been sure what to do with himself as he’d walked out of the apartment, counting first his inhales and exhales, shuddery and catching in his chest, and then eventually shifting to counting his steps. His mind wanted him to run, was screaming out for distance, but his body couldn’t do it. He was barely picking his feet up, his sneakers scraping listlessly with each step. He’d bumped into the walls of the hallway, incapable of walking in a straight line, which is when he’d started trying to focus on movement, counting his steps.

He thought he deserved a medal for each step he managed, because it took him further and further from Derek.

The door felt heavy when he pushed it open, and the onslaught of cool, fresh night air made him gag. An immediate spasm of his oesophagus that choked him. His tongue felt too heavy and thick in his mouth, pressing against his teeth and up against the roof of his dried out mouth. He wanted to vomit, to purge all of the emotions jostling for dominance in his chest and dictating the direction of his erratic and wayward thoughts. He felt very much out of control, and it terrified him.

The asphalt was wet and had the particular scent of urbanity after a downpour; something a little musty, and yet strangely appealing. The streetlights had clicked on, and now shone golden yellow in halos. He’d stopped moving, his feet halting without conscious decision, and Stiles realised he didn’t know where to go. He couldn’t go home; his dad was at work, of course, but his house felt like it was steeped in too many memories that would just tear at him with jagged teeth and claws right now. His room, his safe place, would just dredge up flickering memories of moments shared with Derek there, and he already knew it would end up with him aching with loneliness.

There was a strange feeling of embarrassment curling in his gut, that stopped him from heading to Scotts, or to any other members of the pack. He didn’t want them to have to deal with this, didn’t want to admit what had happened. What Derek had done, strangely, didn’t make Stiles feel angry or vengeful. He felt… bashful. Protective, almost. The idea of Scott or his dad being angry at Derek, railing at him, made Stiles bristle and want to duck his head in shame, all at once.

It left him wildly off-kilter, standing in the shadows cast from the doorway staring sightlessly, until he realised Derek could probably still hear his heartbeat. And that wouldn’t be doing either of them any favours.

Jolting into motion, he stumbled his way to the jeep, fumbling with his keys but managing to open the drivers side door and get himself inside. He took a moment, his hands flexing on the wheel, to just breathe and try to get himself into at least something resembling the right headspace for driving. The last thing anyone needed tonight was Stiles in a stupid, preventable, car accident.

Roscoe made a slightly choking sound, but the engine turned over easily enough, for once not making that grinding sound as Stiles pushed on the clutch and shifted into first gear. It seemed like his baby was going to co-operate in getting him the hell out of here.

 

*****

 

The first time he saw Derek after, was when he was coming out of the grocery store, with a paper bag cradled in his arms. He halted, stuttering to a stop and squeezed the bag closer, aware he was probably squishing the bread in there, but it made him feel a little less bared to be clutching the bag to him.

Derek didn’t appear to notice him; he didn’t look like he was noticing anything. It scared Stiles, how absolutely unaware of his surroundings Derek seemed. His skin was ashen and he’d neglected to shave, his usually perfectly sculpted stubble now unruly. People were giving him a wider berth than usual, sensing that there was something incredibly off about him, like some sixth sense for danger, and that made Stiles feel a little sick. It was like a haze around Derek, something intangible that left him walking slowly, not realising that people were moving from him, repelled like magnets.

He really should have scented Stiles by now, heard his heartbeat thumping in his chest like a fucking drum. Something should have announced Stiles' presence to him. They’d once been so in tune with each other, a constant awareness of the other like subtle vibrations humming over skin when the other was near, bodies shifting and moving to accommodate each other or to protect.

It drove the distance between them into Stiles like a railroad spike to his gut, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Maybe he had more of a masochistic streak than he’d realised.

Finally, Derek halted, without warning. An abrupt shut down of motion, jarring in how absolute it was. He didn’t move, didn’t even seem to blink, until he took a deep inhale, and Stiles realised why he’d stopped. That he’d caught Stiles’ scent, and it had made Derek’s body just grind to a halt.

Stiles felt like his heart skipped multiple beats, all out of sync, but he forced himself to move, scurrying towards his jeep. His hands were trembling, and his throat was aching so much it hurt to breathe, but he somehow managed to get inside and start the car, ignoring the blurring and driving out of the lot.

 

*****

 

The second time was when Scott came bursting into the Sheriffs office. His eyes looked a little frantic, and he was wearing one of the green scrub tops from Deaton’s. “Something attacked Derek,” he blurted, without preamble. “He’s not letting us help him, Stiles, can you-,” Scott stopped, face shifting into an expression of discomfort.

Stiles could feel Scott and his Dad staring at him as he stood up from the sofa slowly, nodding. “Okay, yeah. Let’s go,” he said, loosely balling his fists.

“Stiles,” his dad said, sounding wary. He half-stood behind his desk, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“It’s okay dad,” Stiles assured him. “I’ll call you if I’m gonna be late,” he said steadily, at least putting up a good front for his dad. Scott, on the other hand, would be able to scent all of the crashing emotions roiling under Stiles’ skin, hear his heart as it ticked up, increasingly frantic. His palms were starting to sweat, and he expected Scott could smell that too.

The Sheriff nodded, and watched as Stiles followed Scott outside. “I’ll meet you at Deaton’s,” Stiles said, slipping into Roscoe.

Scott put his hand in the window, stopping Stiles from just driving off. “Stiles,” he said carefully, the same wariness in his tone as his dad had used. Stiles hadn’t told anyone about what had happened, hadn’t mustered up the energy to explain any of it, but it was obvious things had gone very, very, wrong. The spiteful little part of Stiles wondered if Scott was watching it all, thinking ‘I told you so,’ and feeling vindicated, even as the chasm in his pack grew.

“I said it’s fine, Scott,” Stiles said, shorter than he’d meant to be. He just wanted to get to Derek, to help him, however he could. Mostly. He also wanted to run in the other direction and hide under his covers, pretend nothing was happening.

He pulled out of his parking space and headed towards the vet’s, peripherally aware of Scott following on his bike in his wing mirror, driving the too-familiar route on autopilot. He didn’t want to give himself any time to stop and think before he walked into the vet’s, so he more or less leapt from the jeep, slamming the door with a push as he strode towards the main entrance, yanking the door open without paying attention to the ‘Closed’ sign and ducking under the counter without pause. He could hear the commotion coming from one of the back rooms, the low snarling. It didn’t sound entirely out of place in a vet’s, like perhaps there was a very ornery animal back there, though the pitch was enough to have the hair on Stiles’ arms raising, like an innate reaction to something that sounded so predatory.

The door was closed, and Liam was sitting outside of it, his legs straight out in front of him and blood smeared on his forearms and stomach. He scrabbled to his feet when he was Stiles, and tried to wipe uselessly at the blood. “Deaton wants to sedate him,” Liam said, eyes flicking briefly to the door. “I don’t know if you should go in there,” he said hesitantly,taking a small step closer and then rocking his weight back.

“It’s fine kid,” Stiles said wearily, brushing past Liam and opening the door. He slipped inside and closed it behind him, closing out Liam and Scott.

The air in the room was hot and musty, the scent of dirt and animal and blood hanging heavy. The metal examination table was on it’s side, blood streaked on it’s surface, and a pair of jeans were hanging haphazardly over the edge.

Derek had shifted, fully shifted, into his wolf form. He was half hunkered under one of the counters, pressing himself into the corner as best he could, his eyes startlingly blue. His hackles were raised, giving him the illusion of more bulk, and his lips had pulled back from his teeth in a warning snarl, low growls reverberating from him with each laboured inhale and exhale. Deaton was standing in the opposite corner, holding a vial of slightly purple liquid, breathing heavily. Quite an admittance of discomfort from the usually unshakeable vet.

Stiles’ heart hurt, and he pressed his back to the door, sliding down to sit. He bought his legs in close, then stretched them out, forcing himself into a more open position. Body language meant a lot to a wolf, he knew, so he left his arms uncrossed too, and didn’t look at Derek directly.

“Stiles-,” Deaton began, taking a step towards him.

“No, just. Stay quiet, and over there,” Stiles said, holding up his hand in the universal gesture for stop.

Derek had stopped growling when Stiles spoke, and he let out a low whimper now instead. Stiles pressed his lips together, and closed his eyes. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time Big Guy?” he asked, ignoring the way his voice had cracked. He stopped speaking, focusing on breathing and, more crucially, not crying. He let his fingertips drop to touch the tiled floor, extended his arm away from his body just a little. “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes,” he said shakily, aiming for levity but missing by a mile.

Stiles’ breath stumbled when Derek pressed his cold nose to Stiles’ hand; he inched closer, so low to the ground that his belly was scraping it, and his ears were pinned back, tail still and tucked under him. Stiles squeezed his eyes closed tighter, and kept his hand still. “Are you hurt Derek?” he asked quietly, wanting to cry at the big fucking joke of those words. He had to fight not to sound bitter, because that wouldn’t do either of them any good, and Derek was messed up enough right now as it was.

He felt coarse fur touch his hand, slightly greasy and rough, followed by a heavy weight on his thigh. He didn’t even need to look to know Derek had put his head there; he knew the weight, the feel of it, by heart. Stiles brushed his fingers through the long fur of Derek’s flank, careful and stilling only when he felt the wetness of the fur around his ribs. Stiles looked then, pulled his hand back to find it unsurprisingly bloodied.

“Why isn’t this healing?” he asked roughly, looking at Derek now, eyes greedily drinking in the sight of the wolf, leaning on him for comfort and safety.

“We don’t know. I need to see the wound to know what caused it, but he isn’t letting me near,” Deaton said calmly. He reached out to Stiles, and held out a syringe now filled with the pale purple stuff. Derek didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes even as Stiles shifted beneath him, reaching out to take the syringe. He carded his hands through the thick fur around Derek’s neck, using his fingers to burrow in and reveal at least a little area of skin. Derek let out a small whine, high pitched and nasal, something akin to a horse whinnying in distress, and when Stiles looked at his face, Derek’s blue eyes were locked on his.

They stayed there as Stiles injected him, unblinking. They stayed there as Stiles pulled out the needle, hand dropping to the side, no longer able to stomach touching him. They stayed there, until they finally, finally, drooped closed, lids covering up that unearthly blue, and Derek lost consciousness.

 

*****

 

It was the time after that, that made Stiles realise something had to change. That his attempts to give them both space and time, to heal and sooth out the jagged edges of betrayal and hurt, really wasn’t working out so well. For either of them.

Stiles had been having trouble sleeping, favouring all night research sessions that weren’t really doing anything but making his brain swim during the day, random snippets of information stealing his focus mid-sentence and leaving him unable to conduct a decent conversation most of the time without falling into tangents that no one else could hope to follow.

He ignored the worried looks his dad was casting his way, expertly sidestepped any attempts at conversation about what was going on, and counted down the days until he could just go back to school. Go back to a place that wasn’t haunted.

His dad was on an early shift, so Stiles woke up to an empty house, and ambled downstairs without fully waking up, scratching his belly and peering through one squinting eye at the contents of the cupboard. He grabbed a mug and poured himself what was possibly yesterdays coffee, and grimaced with his whole face as he swallowed the mouthful. His head felt intolerably fuzzy, like he was seeing the world from underwater, and his head was stuffed with cotton. It made him feel oddly floaty and out of touch with reality, and he recognised it as a symptom of too-little sleep. He thought he might go for a run, just to try and clear his head a little. If it exhausted him enough to get some rest, then that would be a nice bonus he supposed.

He trudged upstairs and shoved off his pyjama bottoms, exchanging them for a pair of basketball shorts and a plain t-shirt. His running shoes were half-shoved under the foot of his bed in his bag, and it occurred to him he hadn’t run since being home for break. He’d had a half-formed plan to go running with Derek or Scott when he’d been back from school, but it hadn’t really worked out that way. He stood on the sidewalk outside his house, and eeny-meeny-minee-moed which direction to run in, thinking he’d just go in a loop. He headed right, and jogged lightly down the street, breaking into longer, faster strides as he hit the first crossing. It took him maybe 30 minutes to be sodden with sweat and hitting the last leg of his run, forcing himself to breathe in his nose instead of just open mouthed panting. He rounded the corner of his street, slowing to a jog, and eventually halting at the sight of an innocuous dark silvery-grey Toyota. He’d grinned obnoxiously the first time he’d seen it, silently mourning for the Camaro, but ridiculously amused at the idea of big bad wolf Derek Hale driving a soccer mom car. Now it just made him feel leaden with dread.

Stiles walked quietly up to the car, and ducked his head to peer in the window, hoping it would be empty. Even if that meant Derek was on his doorstep, at least it would give him a minute to gather his wits about him.

It wasn’t empty though. Instead, he found Derek asleep, his head leaning on the doorframe of the car, face turned slightly towards the interior of the car. His eyelashes were long and dark against his pale cheeks, smudged with what looked like bruising under his eyes. Dark circles that spoke of his own exhaustion. His lips were parted slightly, his mouth open just a little, just enough to make Stiles think about how it felt to sleep next to Derek, curled up and entwined with him, to open his eyes and stare at the surprising serenity of a sleeping Derek Hale, little puffs of warm air skating over his skin as he breathed. He lifted his hand, touched his fingertips of the cool glass, leaving little sweat sticky smears.

It took him a moment to make a move, but he curled his fingers in and tapped his knuckles against the glass. Derek didn’t startle awake, didn’t even move really, but his eyelids opened heavily, reluctantly. The myriad colours of his eyes looked dull and flat, muddied, and it took a moment for them to actually focus on Stiles beyond the glass. He blinked sluggishly, one eye just a little lazier than the other, and pushed himself upright with all the grace and speed of a retiree, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. Stiles stood, and propped his hands on his hips, turning to look at his own house. He had the perfect view of it from this spot, no doubt why Derek had chosen to park here. Stiles wondered how often he’d done this, and decided he’d rather not know. He was a big fan of ignoring something until it went away, and the horrible thick feeling in his chest was something he was determined not to think about.

Stiles walked around to the passenger side of the car, and pulled the door open roughly, more aggressively than he’d expected. Derek watched him without speaking. Stiles slid into the car, facing forward with his hands twitching in his lap.

“I didn’t mean to come here,” Derek said finally, his voice hoarse and rough. He was staring ahead too, but his nostrils were flaring. Stiles’ scent, sweaty as he was, was no doubt drenching the interior of the car.

Stiles nodded, just to acknowledge Derek had spoken. “I’m not mad at you, you know,” Stiles said abruptly, after the silence had long since grown awkward and uncomfortable. Tension had filled every nook and cranny of the car, but neither one of them were in a rush to escape it.

“You should be,” Derek replied quietly, tightening his hands on the wheel. It made an ominous little creaking sound, and Derek’s knuckles whitened as he held on tight. The muscles in his forearms all flexed and went taut with the motion.

“Maybe,” Stiles shrugged. “But I’m not.” He took a deep breath, and turned a little to let his eyes roam over Derek. “It hurts though. Still. Probably for a while,” he said, eyes zeroing in on the way Derek’s jaw clenched. “You have to take care of yourself Derek,” he said quietly, voice barely louder than a whisper. “You have to,” he reiterated, a little firmer. “It’s like you’re punishing me, for needing space and time to think. By punishing yourself,” he could feel his anger flaring up, tendrils of acidic heat in his stomach that were unfurling as he spoke. “I’m standing here, watching you fade away, let yourself get hurt and not even caring, and it feels like it’s my fault," he nearly sobbed, voice catching in his throat like shards of glass. He spat out his words and felt them fall, striking Derek and leaving bruises under his skin. “It’s _not_ my fault. It isn’t, it’s not,” he repeated, clenching his fists, nails biting into his palms. “I need you to take care of yourself, because I can’t take care of you anymore.”

He could feel Derek flinching at that, could see his chest rapidly rising and falling as he breathed faster. Stiles reached out a hand, placing it on Derek’s forearm and taking a second just to revel in the contact, at the heat of Derek’s skin under his palm. He gripped tight, not wanting this to be soft and caressing. That would break them both faster than anything else could.

“Derek, I can’t be that for you anymore, do you understand me? I can’t do it, and... I shouldn’t. There’s too much… It just isn’t right. Okay? You get that, don’t you?” he asked, urging Derek to answer with little squeezes of his arm.

Derek nodded, stilted and slow. He was like a puppet, strings jerking his chin up and down in a parody of human movement.

“It doesn’t mean I’m going away though Derek. I’m right here. Right fucking here. I’m in that house, at the end of a phone or an email. Always,” Stiles said, sounding slightly broken to his own ears. His heart was steady though, because he’d never meant something more honestly before in his whole life. “I’m not turning away from you, and I’m not abandoning you. You need me? I’m here. Maybe not how I was before, and that’ll take some time to get used to, but Derek please. I _need_ for you to look after yourself. And you need to look after yourself too. Not just for me, or because I’m asking you, but for you. Do you- Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah Stiles, I get it,” Derek replied mechanically. He released the wheel and his hands slid listlessly down the surface of it, tugging his hand from Stiles’ grip. Stiles knew he was lying, without needing to hear it in his heartbeat. He still thought Stiles’ was rejecting him, punishing him. He thought Stiles’ didn’t want him, and he obviously believed that he deserved this.

“Okay,” Stiles said, just for the sake of making sound. He wasn’t agreeing with Derek as such, so his heart stayed steady. “Come in the house? You can nap on the sofa, and I just… I just think it would be good for us to talk more,” Stiles said, opening the car door, but waiting for Derek. He stepped out, and shoved his hands in his pockets, watching Derek duck out of the car and close the door quietly, clicking the fob and wincing at the strangely too-loud of the car locking.

They walked over to the house, and Stiles opened the door, not commenting on the way Derek hesitated at the threshold, or the way his frown was broadcasting how much he was hurting as he walked into the front room, nostrils flaring as he took in the scents of Stiles’ home, probably hitting him like a punch in the gut.

“I’m going to shower, okay? Just… stay. Get some sleep,” Stiles said, backing over towards the stairs as he waved in the general direction of the front room. He took a moment to look at Derek, standing with his shoulders slightly hunched and his hands twitching at his sides like he was fighting not to fidget, and took a small measure of comfort in the fact Derek would still be here when he returned. They might not ever get back to where they had been, but it didn’t stop Stiles from wanting, _needing_ , to help Derek. There were no other options, nothing else to consider, because Stiles loved him.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic includes sort of cheating, so if that's something that will bother you, maybe skip this one. Inspired by ICOS.
> 
> I'm still working on [A Puppy's Life For Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7018354), but today I've just been feeling like I need some angst, so here we go. (Also yay for shameless fic promo in my notes!)
> 
> Feel free to say hi on [Tumblr. ](http://plebble-moosey.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Un-beta'd and written as a one-shot whilst I listened to NIN (hence the title), wallowing in Sterek woe. Point out any mistakes etc., as you wish!
> 
> -Ax


End file.
